


I asked for death but instead I'm awake

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Depression, Guilt, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-01-23 12:35:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12507552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: When it all just gets to be too much, Draco lets his emotions drip out from his arms, but when he decides to let his life drip out too, who should come along but Potter, ruining everything as usual





	1. Why did I even come at all

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys  
> This is a bit fucked up, stay safe  
> TW for a very graphic suicide attempt, self harm, and self hatred

Stupid. Draco didn't even know why he'd had come. To somehow let Fred know how sorry he was, even though a dead body couldn't hear you. To feel like he wasn't as worthless as he truly knew that he was. Hidden at the back of the crowd in the bleak cemetery, he felt even more depressed than he usually did, not better. The sky was gray, the trees were gray, the crumbling headstones were gray, everything was gray like the whole world was mourning Fred's death. It had been eight months since the Battle of Hogwarts, but Draco knew that if the funeral had been any earlier, no one would've been able to even get out of bed.

After the Battle, everything had changed. It should have been happy, victory over the Dark Lord, the chance to rebuild, but it was overshadowed by the crushing loss. How could you win and yet still feel so much like you hadn't? And it was so much worse for Draco. He pretended not to notice the accusing stares, the harsh whispers, and the muttered comments that followed everywhere he went. He knew. He knew that everyone blamed him and his family and his friends for their loss, and he also knew that they were right. 

So when he heard that Fred's funeral was today, he decided to go. It wasn't hard to slip out of the castle. Almost everyone in eighth year was going, and all of the teachers, so no one noticed a pale, hunched figure flooding out with the rest of them. But when he got to the cemetery, he stayed back, leaning against a tree, just close enough to barely hear the words, but far enough back that even if someone did see him, they wouldn't be able to tell who he was. And they certainly wouldn't be able to make out the tears dripping down his face. 

He saw people starting to turn to the back, getting ready to leave , so he slipped to the side, making his way around the cemetery and staying within the cover of the trees until he was closer but still obscured from almost every angle.

He wasn't an idiot. He knew that people hated him, and he knew that they wouldn't understand why he was here. Opinions were much easier to form than to destroy, and their hatred of him was so deeply rooted that he knew he would never be welcome at Fred's funeral, but he had to come. 

People trickled out slowly but steadily, until only the Weasleys, Potter, and Granger were left standing at the headstone, but eventually even they turned and left. Draco waited until he couldn't see them anymore before creeping out of the trees and crossing to Fred's grave, exploding with flowers. He knelt in front of it, and inhaled shakily before he started to sob uncontrollably. For the first time in eighteen years, he didn't care who saw him as the tears dripped onto the stone. 

"I'm so sorry," he whispered roughly. "To everyone. For all the people who are dead or whose lives are ruined because I was too fucking weak. I'm not asking you to forgive me, because why would you ever forgive me, but I just wanted you to know."

He kept crying for a few more minutes, overwhelmed by the words that he would never be able to say. "I---I know you probably don't want it, because why would you want anything from the reason why you're dead, but I can't keep carrying this anymore. You probably don't need any more flowers." 

He reached into his pocket with trembling fingers and drew out a heavy silver ring. He dropped the symbol of what used to be his greatest pride and what was now his greatest regret onto the grass next to the gravestone, and shifted a white lily to cover it. 

"Goodbye, Fred. I'm sorry for everything I've done to you. I'm sorry for calling you names, for being mean to your friends and your family. Just know that I would have given anything to be raised in a family as kind and loving as yours, and I'm glad you had the life that you did. I really did love your pranks, and your jokes. I'm just sorry that I never got to tell you. I'd say that I guess I'll see you again soon, but I don't think we're going to the same place, so goodbye. For the last time." One more tear dripped onto the lily, and beaded on the petal, as he slowly stood up, blinking away a few last tears. He walked into the trees, and didn't look back.

. . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

 

Harry had stood all through the service, screaming inside. Fred would've hated it. He would've wanted bouncy castles and laughter and jokes and fond memories, not a bleak day and sad sermon and everyone crying. A celebration of his life, not mourning his death. He hadn't shed a single tear through the whole thing, but now, as they walked back to the Portkey they'd taken from just outside the Hogwarts grounds, he couldn't take it anymore. 

"I-I have to go back. I---dropped my . . . my wallet. I'll be right back." Before anyone could question him or offer to go with him, he turned and jogged back to the grave, tears already streaming down his face. But he slowed when he saw a crouched figure huddled at the grave, shaking. He couldn't tell who it was, so he quietly stepped closer. The man's face was down, but Harry was now close enough that he could hear sobbing. Then the man began to speak. He apologized, his voice and words full of self-hate and bitterness, but Harry recognized Malfoy's voice instantly.

As he listened, he started crying not for Fred, but for the broken boy in front of the grave. 

. . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

When Draco snuck back into the castle, he was still shaky, so he decided to head for his sanctuary before anyone spotted him. The halls were almost deserted, as most of the eighth years hadn't yet returned from the funeral, and McGonagall had cancelled classes, both in honor of Fred's death and because so many students and all of the teachers were out. It was about five in the afternoon, so nobody would be around until probably six, for dinner. He'd changed out of his suit before entering the castle, so he wouldn't be suspicious, and now he was in a green jumper and black jeans.

He walked through the halls with his head down, absorbed in his thoughts, so he didn't notice when three hulking Gryffindors appeared in his path. "Where are you going, worthless whore?" one with a big acne problem snarled.

"T-to my dorm," Draco lied.

"I think you should come with us," one covered in hair said menacingly.

Their friend, a muscly boy, grabbed Draco's arm and started pulling him down the corridor. 

"Let's go to the Astronomy Tower," Zit said. "Nobody goes up there during the day."

Furry dragged him by the other arm. Draco sagged in their grasp. He never fought back. Why would he when he knew he deserved it? He couldn't even count how many times he'd been beaten up this year, and had dragged himself to the Room of Requirement to tend to his wounds. He was an expert at it now. 

They climbed the steps in silence, until they reached the top. "Perfect," Furry said. “Now we can be alone."

They dumped him against a wall, and immediately started punching and kicking him. He just laid there limply and took it. He didn't scream, but he let out a hoarse whimper when Hulk kicked him in the gut. They kept kicking and punching him, each hit punctuated with harsh words.

"Worthless."

"Slut."

"Murderer."

"Monster."

"Useless."

"Death Eater."

"Don't deserve to be alive."

"Whore."

"Traitor."

 

It wasn't like they were calling him anything he didn't already call himself.

Draco could barely see anything through the sheen of tears and the red haze blocking his vision. Suddenly, he heard footsteps, and the hits stopped.

"What the fuck is going on?" a voice roared.

 

"Just giving the Death Eater what he deserves?" one of the Gryffindors said tentatively, like he was afraid of whoever had come. Draco didn't bother lifting his head to look at the newcomer; it didn't matter.

"This is not o-fucking-kay, assholes. Get the fuck out of here, and don't ever do this to anyone, ever again." The voice was cool and dangerous, and clearly the Gryffindors were at least smart enough to know that now was an excellent time for them to run. 

Once they were gone, footsteps came closer to Draco where he was slumped against the wall. "Malfoy, can you talk?" Gentle fingers tipped his chin up so that his silver eyes were staring into Potter's green ones.

"Leave me alone," he muttered, tearing his head from Potter's grasp. Draco started to stand slowly, but winced in pain. He got to a standing position, bracing himself on the wall, but immediately started to feel faint and unsteady.

"Here, let me help." Potter took hold of Draco's left forearm, but Draco snatched his arm away as if he'd been burned. 

 

In a way, he had.

 

"Don't touch me," he snarled. "Especially not --- there."

"Well, can you walk? If we can get to the Room of Requirement, I can get you cleaned up."

"I don't want help from you! Why would the Chosen One be helping me?"

"Because it's wrong, and nobody deserves that."

"I do, though. It's not like it can bring them back, but why fight back when you know you deserve it?"

"Malfoy . . . It's not your fault."

"Really? Tell that to the people who are dead. Just go back to your perfect life, and leave me alone."

He started to limp off, but collapsed before he could make it five feet. Potter rushed to support him, gently setting him down on the ground. "Here, let me take your shirt off so I can at least heal what I can right now."

Potter reached to unbutton Draco's shirt, but he slapped Potter's hand away, a frightened look in his eyes. "No! Please, no!" Potter drew back, startled. "Please. I'll be fine. Look." Draco dug his wand out of his pants and muttered a healing spell. The visible bruises and cuts started to close up, and he regained some of his strength. He wouldn't ordinarily use a healing spell, would let himself suffer, but with Potter so insistent, he had to, just to make sure that Potter wouldn't make him take off his shirt.

Potter was still frowning, but Draco glared at him. "I'm fine. Goodbye, Potter," he said harshly, then he picked himself up and stalked off. He could feel Potter's eyes following him, but he didn't look back


	2. Failure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco wants to die. More than anything. Actually, that's the only thing he wants at all anymore. But it seems like Harry fucking Potter won't let that happen.

Now that it was about to be the end, Draco felt almost okay, the way he had in the beginning. It was peaceful, still and quiet. He was standing in front of the sinks in what everybody else called Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, but he just called it home. It was the only place where he could really be himself. At Malfoy Manor, when he was younger his father was there, ready to catch the slightest mistakes, and now his mother was as fragile as a porcelain doll, and one wrong move could shatter her. In front of his "friends", he had to keep up pretenses, do what they all expected of him. Pansy knew about some things, but she barely scraped the surface. The rest of the school already knew what they thought of him, and trying to act differently now would only make it worse. 

He was just so fucking tired. Tired of always having to hide who he was, even from the people he should have been able to trust. A strange thought occurred to him, and he laughed bitterly. Potter was the person who'd seen him most vulnerable, in this very bathroom in sixth year, and two days ago after those Gryffindors beat him up. Harry fucking Potter, the Chosen One, the Golden Boy, his ex-arch nemesis. 

Draco was also just tired of life. After the war, everything had changed. Maybe his body had survived, but not his soul or his conscience or his will to live, all of which had already been dying. He was tired of living with all of his ghosts. The people who were dead because of him, whose lives had been ruined by him or his family or his friends. They followed him everywhere, whispering that it was his fault his fault his fault that why should he live when they didn't why didn't he hurt as much as they did. 

But the ghosts didn't get it. He did hurt just as much, more than they did. He felt the pain of all of them, shards of ice driving into him and slowly freezing him. He felt all of the guilt and grief and sorrow and loss and it was just too fucking much. Now, he felt almost numb, which he used to hope for, but it was worse than the maelstrom of feelings, because now he didn't feel anything. He knew he deserved every scathing remark, aggressive whisper, accusing glare, every punch and kick and hex and curse, so he wasn't angry at them anymore. He was just empty. But when he did feel, it was never good. It was always crippling sadness or violent anger or crushing guilt.

Draco shrugged out of his shirt, staring into the mirror, the only one of six hanging above the sinks that wasn't cracked, since he'd smashed them in September, after glancing at his reflection and being unable to stand seeing the devil in the mirror, the monster staring back at him. He'd only saved the one at the very end; he didn't quite know why. Now he examined himself closely. Silver eyes that no longer burned brightly. Pale skin, much too pale. Ribs and collarbones that jutted out, looking like they wanted to burst free and fly away. He didn't blame them. That was exactly what he was about to do. The worst was the scars. Long slashes crossed his torso, silvery now, from Potter's Sectumsempra curse two years ago. 

If only Snape hadn't been able to save him then. Things hadn't been quite this bad before the war; Draco hadn't been this fucked up, but that didn't mean he hadn't still wanted to die. Only the knowledge of what would happen to his family had kept him from doing it. 

On his left forearm, branded there forever as a perpetual reminder of his weakness, his cowardice, was a swirling black tattoo, forming the shape of a snake slithering out of a skull. The Dark Mark. He hadn't rolled his sleeves up or taken off his shirt or worn short sleeves around other people since sixth year, so no one would see the Dark Mark, first so no one would know, and then so no one would be reminded, himself included.

Finally, small cuts, varying in length and depth and age, blanketed his upper body like snowflakes or lace, so that there was hardly any skin that wasn't marred. These were the only ones that he'd done to himself, although all of the marks on his body were his fault. He hadn't started cutting himself until fifth year, when the pressure from his father and the Death Eaters, all of the lies, and all of the suppressed emotions started building up, threatening to explode out of him, but he found that some of it could drip out with the blood, enough to keep him stable, but not enough to make him sane. 

And after the war, the cuts were his medication and his penance. They said that two wrongs didn't make a right, but pain for him could lessen the pain he felt for others, at least for a little while. 

He'd been careful at first, only cutting when it got really overwhelming, and only in easy to hide places, like the center of his chest or on his ribs, and never too deep, but the blade was the most powerful drug he'd ever tasted, and he'd taken a lot of those trying to help himself melt, to dislodge the shards of ice, but never enough to get addicted to any of them, except for the cutting. He couldn't stay away, in the way that smokers needed a cigarette and junkies needed a hit. He'd even had panic attacks a few times, when couldn't get the release. 

He wanted it now, but he waited, knowing that he'd get it soon. He'd get what he'd been craving for years, soon. 

Draco wished for his parents with all his might, with all of the desperation of someone who could never stop loving, no matter how much it hurt. He didn't wish for the parents he had now. Who would ever wish for his harsh, unloving father or cold mother? He wished for the possibility of his parents, the idea he'd had of them as a child, the fantasy he'd built up in his head before he realized that were never going to love him. Ignorance is bliss, and not knowing that they would never love him had been the sweetest paradise.

"Draco?" a high, soft voice asked from above him. He glanced up to see Moaning Myrtle swooping through the air to land next to him. 

He smiled a bit when he saw her, as much as he still could. She was the only he didn't have to pretend for. She could have told everyone, how fucked up he was, that none of what they'd been seeing was real, but she didn't, because Draco was the only one who was truly nice to her, who treated her like a person, not just an annoying ghost. He'd been coming to her bathroom since third year, as he always knew that it'd be abandoned, and it had started to feel more like home than anywhere else. 

He told her everything. She knew why he was so messed up, but she didn't care. Most of the time, she didn't try to help, because she knew she couldn't do anything but be there for him, but she didn't judge, and just having someone there helped more than she would probably ever know. 

"Hello, Elizabeth," he said. She perked up when he said her first name; most people barely even remembered that she had ever been called something other Moaning Myrtle. 

"Is---is today a bad day?" she asked tentatively.

He nodded. "Yeah, it is." She knew by now not to ask why, so she simply gave him a chilly one-armed ghost hug, then gently floated away to one of the stalls. Draco didn't have the heart to tell her that today was the last day, that maybe he'd be joining her soon. He didn't think that would make her happy. She'd seen him cutting, crying, screaming, and everything in between, but he couldn't tell her this.

He reached into his pockets, charmed to be bigger, and pulled out four pill bottles that he'd picked up at a Muggle pharmacy after Fred's funeral and a razor blade, setting them on the sink.

He didn't really know what any of the strange names on the bottles meant, but he knew that they would work. A Malfoy should always be perfect, even in death, so he'd done his research. The Wizarding World was so disconnected from Muggle society, so he knew that nobody in St. Mungo's could treat overdose on Muggle pills, when they didn't know what they were. Also, it was one last act of defiance towards his father and all that he stood for. The Death Eaters hated Muggles, so offing himself with their methods was just one last way to show that Draco Malfoy didn't give a fuck anymore. 

Staring into the mirror again, little things started to jump out at him. The light shining in the cracks in the other mirrors. A split in a few of the tiles on the floor. A small puddle of water under one of the sinks. 

The pill bottles were sitting in the sink, and he struggled to open one, before reading the instructions on the lid and easily twisting the cap off. He did the same for the others, then shook a handful from each into his palm and swallowed them dry, continuing like this until he'd taken all three bottles.

He didn't feel any different yet, but all he knew was that he just wanted it to be over, so he grabbed the razor and slid down the wall to sit on the floor. As he held the blade, he noticed that it seemed to be moving, shaking, as were his fingers. That was odd. He brought it to his wrist, much farther down than he would usually dare, and with one quick motion, he sliced up, opening a gash from his wrist to about halfway to his elbow, which was much deeper than most of the others. He knew that you'd bleed out faster that way, so he didn't cut vertically the other times, because he wasn't looking to die then. He just wanted to feel the pain. But now he didn't want to feel anything anymore.

He watched curiously as the blood welled to the surface and trickled down his arm, mixing with the drops of water that were already there. A drop of water fell onto his wrist, right into some blood, and turned it pink. He didn't know why he was wet. He looked up to see if it was raining, but the ceiling was just as dry as it normally was. Then he realized that the raindrops were coming from his eyes. Well, that was sudden. It was now a downpour.

He transferred the razor to his other hand, but it slipped through his fingers and dropped onto his leg. He tried to pick it up, but it sliced his fingers, making them slippery. He finally got a hold on it, and dragged it unceremoniously up his right arm, thinking that it was probably jealous of his left, which was decorated with the blood while this one was plain. 

He smiled to himself, glad that it was finally fair. So few things in life were. The blood ran in rivulets down his arms, splashing into the tiles below. Now the rain was turning into a storm, flooding. He saw a little bug crawling on the ground, trying to escape the water, but it got swept up by one of the pink rivers running along the tiles. The rain got harder. 

His hands were moving again, like he was doing jazz hands. The blade slipped through his fingers, this time landing on the floor with a clatter. He started trying to pick it up again, but paused when he heard Elizabeth's voice. "D-draco? What are you doing? Why i-is there so ---- much blood?"

"I didn't want my other arm to be jealous," he explained. The bug was on the ground, kicking its legs up, trapped. He understood. 

"A-are you o-o-okay?" Elizabeth asked, laughing. 

He glanced up sharply. "No! I haven't been okay since fourth year! Why would I be okay now?" 

"C-calm down, Draco," she sobbed disjointedly. Oh. She wasn't laughing; she was crying.

"Shit!" he muttered, the blade forgotten in the puddle of blood. He hadn't know that he had so much in him. Maybe some of it was from all of the people he'd killed, directly or indirectly. If it was, he was surprised he and Elizabeth hadn't drowned yet, that it hadn't filled up the bathroom, all the way to the ceiling.

"I forgot a note. That's what you're supposed to do, isn't it?" He found it funny for some reason, and started laughing. "Oh, well. Just another thing I've screwed up."

"I---I have to go . . . Do something. Please, Draco, don't do anything. Don't leave me." She said the last part quietly enough that he wasn't sure if she'd even said it. 

He didn't answer, but she hurriedly swooped off, leaving him alone with his thoughts. Well, and the bug, who'd finally stopped moving. "Goodbye. I'll be joining you soon," he whispered. He realized that the rain had stopped, too.

He started trying to pick up the blade again, getting his hands soaked in blood and cut even more, but he didn't even notice. He didn't feel it. It had hurt a little bit when he'd sliced up his arms, but he'd welcomed that pain. He wa

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Harry was wandering through the halls, trying to find Ron, when Moaning Myrtle swooped down the corridor, straight for him, screaming.

"Harry!" she yelled, stopping just a foot away from him, looking scared.

"What is it, Myrtle?" 

"I-i-it's Draco! He's --- oh, I don't know!" she wailed. "He's different --- I'm scared! He was saying that he wasn't okay --- a-and staring at this bug and crying and there were things in the sink and there was so much blood --- Harry, you have to help me! I'm scared I'm so scared what if he's dead and it's my fault because I waited so long and HARRY!"

He stood there for a moment, shocked, but then burst into action. "Myrtle, go get McGonagall, and any other teacher you can find --- no! Go to the hospital wing first, get Madam Pomfrey, and then the other teachers. Go!"

She nodded and swooped off, but he barely saw her, as he was already sprinting for her bathroom. He skidded in, dropped his bag in the doorway, and headed straight for the opposite wall, where he saw Malfoy slumped against the wall, blood spreading out from his body, tears staining his face, and his eyes closed.

"No no no no no no NO! Fuck! You are NOT allowed to fucking die on me!" he yelled, panicked, his voice rising sharply. He knelt beside Malfoy, but Harry didn't know what to do. Try to staunch the bleeding? He ripped off his cloak, holding it down firmly against the long gashes up both of his arms. He thought he remembered reading something that said you were supposed to cut off circulation to the wound, so more blood wouldn't flow out, but he wasn't sure if it was right, and he didn't want to let go of the cloak. It was already soaked through, so he tried to fold it more. 

His vision grew choppy, and tears blurred his sight, but random things jumped out at him. The long slashes all over Malfoy's torso, from the Sectumsempra curse in sixth year. Small cuts blanketing his body. The Dark Mark, harsh against his pale skin. A razor blade, lying on the floor innocently, glinting in the light. But then something caught Harry's eye that almost made his heart stop. A few open pill bottles were scattered on one of the sinks. They looked like Muggle pills, like the ones that used to be in the medicine cabinet at the Dursleys'. 

He held down the cloak with one arm and reached over to the sink, grabbing the one closest to him to try to read the label, but the words were unrecognizable, and Harry had a feeling that even if he could read in his state of mind, or think anything other than the inescapable thought that Malfoy was dead, dead, dead, he wouldn't have known what any of the words meant. 

But he did know that it meant that even if they could stop Malfoy from bleeding out, no wizard healer would be able to fix an overdose on Muggle drugs. 

Finally, he heard footsteps and Myrtle sobbing, and looked up to see Professor McGonagall, Madam Pomfrey, and Professor Slughorn hurrying in. McGonagall gasped, Madam Pomfrey stifled a scream, and Slughorn stopped in his tracks when they saw Malfoy.

"Please, you have to help him!" Harry begged hoarsely. He could feel tears streaming down his face and splashing onto the floor. He was soaked in blood.

"Mr. Potter, explain what happened," McGonagall said calmly, but Harry could clearly see the tension in her face and fear in her eyes, plain as day. 

He told her how Myrtle had rushed up to him and how he'd found Malfoy, as calmly as he could, but he kept stuttering and repeating himself, unable to think straight. 

"Horace, call St. Mungo's," McGonagall started, but Harry interrupted her.

"No! Professor, he took Muggle drugs. They won't be able to fix that at St. Mungo's. We have to take him to a Muggle hospital."

McGonagall pursed her lips, but nodded. "Alright. Potter, return to your dorm."

"No!" he screamed. "I have to stay with him. Please, Professor. I have to stay with him. If you don't let me, you know I can find a way."

She deliberated again, but sighed. "Fine. But only because I know I can't stop you. Do you have the cloak? I doubt the Muggle hospital will take kindly to your appearance. Harry nodded and gestured to his bag. They weren't going to make him leave Malfoy. Thank god. Although, maybe he shouldn't be thanking someone who didn't exist. After all, if God really did exist, why had He let Malfoy do this?

Once he knew that he wouldn't have to leave Malfoy alone, everything pretty much became a blur. 

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

When Draco woke up, it wasn't like a cliche book. There was no mistaking this sterile hospital room for heaven, and if the ragged mess slumped in a chair was an angel, he was very disappointed. He didn't try to rip off all the tubes and tape and shit that was attached to him, flailing wildly. He didn't forget, not for a second, what had happened. No, the first thought that ran through his mind wasn't of the afterlife or escape or trying to remember; all he could think was, "I failed."

Because the simple fact that he was able to think and move and breathe was proof that he wasn't dead, and nobody downs pills like shots and slices up their arms for the sake of living. 

He glanced around the room, but all he could see was white walls, several machines, a chair with someone sleeping in a very uncomfortable looking position, and a curtain blocking his view of the rest of the space. 

Where am I? he wondered. The person in the chair jerked his head up, and Draco vaguely thought that he must've said it aloud, but he was preoccupied with the realization that the person in the chair was Harry fucking Potter. 

"You're in St. Mungo's," Potter told him, rubbing his eyes. 

"Why are you here?" Draco asked flatly.

Potter stared at him incredulously. "Because I found you lying unconscious on the floor of a fucking girls' bathroom, with pill bottles in the fucking sink and scars all over your body and blood everywhere and I thought you were fucking dead!" 

"Yeah, but why are you here?"

"Because I'm worried about you, you bloody asshole!"

Draco was taken aback, but he decided to ignore it. "That's cute. How long have I been here?"

"You were in a coma for a week. They didn't think you were going to make it." A shadow crossed Potter's face. 

"Have you been in this hospital room for a week? Sorry, Potter, but that's getting a bit too close to stalker for my taste."

"Shut up, Malfoy. And it hasn't been this hospital the whole week."

"What are you talking about?"

"You took Muggle drugs, Malfoy. The healers at St. Mungo's don't know how to fix that."

"Why do you think I fucking took them?"

Potter almost looked like he was about to cry, but he glared instead. Good. Draco could deal with pissy Potter, but he didn't know how to act around concerned Potter.

"McGonagall wanted to take you straight here, but I made her take you to a Muggle hospital first, so they could deal with the drugs, then they Confounded the nurses and doctors and took you here so they could finish healing you with magic. You'd probably be dead from the overdose without the Muggles and dead or seriously fucked up from the cuts without all the blood-replenishing potions. Hell, you're still fucked up, but in the head. Malfoy . . . Why'd you do it?"

Draco was silent for a moment. God, he wished he was dead. He wished he wasn't such a failure that he'd even screwed up his own suicide.

"Don't pretend that you'd understand, Potter."

"Don't pretend that you don't think I would, Malfoy."

"You don't believe that I honestly don't think you'd understand? Well guess what: I don't. Trust me, I know that you've got issues. I think we all do now. And you may have more than most. But until you've know that you truly want to die because you can't fucking take one more minute of it, you will never understand. Until you've lain in bed, wishing that you hadn't woken up, and that you could just slip away. Until you've felt like every single mask you've worn is horribly cracked, but nobody ever notices because nobody wants to. Because how could The Chosen One ever understand why The Boy Who Made All The Wrong Choices doesn't want to live anymore? I know you think that you understand, but trust me. It's just your sleep deprivation and hero complex talking. I know you want to help, but I know that you can't, so stop trying. For the both of us."

Potter looked sad and pitying and a little bit angry. He opened his mouth to say something, but a nurse bustled in. When she noticed that he was awake, she smiled cheerfully. "Hello, dear. I see that you're awake now. That's wonderful! I'll just call in the doctor. Don't you move, he'll be here in a jiff!" She left, humming happily, and Draco wanted to throw up from all of the sugary sweetness; he couldn't stand that type of person. She was probably just an overly cheery person, but he still didn't like it, especially not at that moment.

Potter glanced to the door and the leaned closer to the bed, whispering, "You think I can't help, that I don't understand, but I do. More than anybody. And probably more than you'll ever know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, hope you enjoyed, have a great day/night


	3. "Home"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry fucking Potter is a fucking dick

Draco was discharged the next day, and cleared to return to Hogwarts, but all he could think was an endless cycle of "You failed."  He couldn't even get his own death right.  

 

Potter had returned to the castle with him.  Potter was an enigma, for sure.  But he wasn't the kind of puzzle that you wanted to spend hours trying to figure out; he was the kind of problem that you wanted to shove to the back of the closet and not think about.     
  
And he couldn't help but think that without Potter, he would have succeeded.  Potter was the one who convinced them to send him to a Muggle hospital for the drugs; he would have died if he'd just gone straight to St. Mungo's.     
  
One of the things Draco now liked the best about the Wizarding World was how disconnected it was from the Muggle one, and that included matters regarding mental health and depression and suicide.  If he was a Muggle, he would've been placed in a psych ward maybe, under suicide watch, or at least gone to therapy, but as a wizard he was just offered the option of seeing a therapist, which he had declined, and apparently they'd searched his room and confiscated his razors.  It didn't matter; there was no way they could have found them all.   
  
But Draco knew that if he'd been born a Muggle, he wouldn't have had any of the problems that he did.  

 

Sometimes he fantasized about what his life could have been like without magic.  Maybe his father would have been a banker, or run an advertisement agency.  His mother could have been a businesswoman or entrepreneur or something, or maybe just a trophy wife.  He could have been a normal child, gone to a normal school.  He wouldn't be haunted by ghosts and crushed by guilt.  

 

It was almost funny.  Magic and his family, once his greatest prides, were now his biggest burdens.   
  


Draco flopped back on his bed and stared up at the ceiling, not really seeing it.  He shared this dorm with two eighth year Hufflepuffs and a Ravenclaw, whose names he didn't even know.  They never hung out in the dorm after they woke up, which was fine with Draco as he barely ever left it.  He never went to the Great Hall, instead going to the kitchens to get food from the house elves, but not often.  The vast majority of the time, he had no appetite whatsoever, so now his ribs and collarbones stuck out, and his wrists were much too fragile and delicate.     
  


Nobody was in the dorm now, except for Draco, so he sat up abruptly.  Since he'd gotten back, almost three hours ago, he still hadn't checked to see which razors they’d found.  He lifted up the mattress---the plastic bag was gone.  The two razors in his desk drawer were missing, too.  His actual razor, the one he used for actually shaving, had been taken.  How the fuck did they expect him to shave?  When he checked between the pages of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, he smiled an almost smile when he saw the blade still tucked in close to the spine.  The one hidden inside the Ravenclaw’s seal stuffed animal hadn’t been found, either.  The only other one remaining was the blade he’d taped to the back of his mirror.

 

He would've liked to have had more left, just for insurance, but he was fine with three.

 

Really, he only needed one.  

 

He tucked all of the blades back into their hiding places, and just as he was sliding the Care of Magical Creatures book back onto the shelf, the door creaked open.  

 

Draco whirled around guiltily, then scowled at the sight of Potter standing in the open doorway, lugging his trunk.  

 

“What are you doing here?” Draco asked flatly.

 

“I’m---your new roommate.”

 

“What the fuck?”

 

“Well, clearly the school wasn’t going to do much about---what happened, so I talked to McGonagall.  I’m moving in with you, and we’re in all the same classes already, so that I can keep an eye on you and make sure that--- _ it _ \---doesn’t happen again.”  Draco couldn’t tell if Potter was too disgusted to say “suicide,” scared that just the word would trigger him, or if it was something else.  

 

“Come on, you can’t actually be serious.”

 

Potter’s eyes were hard and his stare was unflinching.  He leaned forward.

 

“Try.  Me.”

 

“But---You hate me!  And I hate you!  It kind of defeats the purpose of stopping me from committing suicide if we just end up killing each other!” he pointed out, rather logically.  

 

“I’m not just going to sit by and watch while you kill yourself, and I would be doing the same exact thing if it was anybody else.  There’s no way to stop this, so just stop trying,”

 

Draco glared.  “What about my roommates?  There are only four beds, and I’ve got three roommates.”  

 

“Oh, please, Terry Boot was dying to move out.  Did you seriously not notice that his stuff was gone?”

 

He glanced over at the bed next to his to see that it was indeed empty, without any of the posters on the walls or clothes bulging out of the dresser.  “Well, excuse me for not scrutinizing the bed of a guy I’ve never even spoken to,” Draco shot back, but his strength was flagging.  Maybe it was best to just give up.  It wasn’t like Potter would have been able to stop him, anyway.  

 

Potter didn’t say anything, just stared.  

 

“. . . Fine.”  Draco turned back to his own bed silently, and collapsed with a random Muggle book.  Since the war, he’d started devouring Muggle literature.  It was like one more punch in the face to his family.  But when he realized that he’d been reading the same sentence over and over again for the past two minutes, he gave up and just stared up at the ceiling.

 

He could hear Potter unpacking his stuff to the side, and could see him sneaking glances at him every once in awhile, but just pretended that he didn’t notice.  It struck him, just then, how much things had changed since first year.  Hell, just his---whatever----with Potter had changed.  In first year, Potter would’ve been doing stupid shit every five minutes and Draco would’ve been snarking at him, constantly commenting on every idiotic thing Potter did.  

 

Of course, those sarcastic comments still ran through his head, and he still hated Potter with a fiery, burning passion, but now he was just too fucking tired to say them.  It was easier to just stay silent, to fade into the shadows, where he belonged, instead of always staying in the spotlight.  When everyone hated you, and rightfully blamed you and your family and your kind for an entire war, who would draw more attention to themselves?   
  


. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

 

Draco didn't know how long he stared up at the ceiling.  He'd abandoned all pretense of reading after ten minutes, letting the book fall onto his chest.  Potter had settled onto his bed and started writing something, probably the homework the Draco should have been doing.  Eventually, after what must have been hours of silence, Potter cleared his throat awkwardly. 

 

“Um, so, it’s 7:30, are you planning on going to dinner?”

 

“No.”

 

Silence.

 

“I’m not hungry.”  For food.

 

“Do you ever eat?”

 

“Sometimes.  The house elves like me.  They’ll give me food if I go to to the kitchens.  It's a hell of a lot better than the Great Hall,” he muttered under his breath.

 

“What’s wrong with the Great Hall?” Draco didn't look over, but he saw out of the corner of his eye that Potter had placed his books and papers off to the side and was now sitting up, staring at Draco.  

 

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe just the fact that everyone in this school hates me, and for good reason,” Draco replied harshly, bitterness painting his words.

 

Potter sighed, a low, pitying sound.  “Malfoy---”

 

“ _ Don’t  _ call me Malfoy.”  His voice was sharp, but it was the kind of sharp that was biting to cover up the faint beginning of tears.

 

“Well, I’m guessing you don’t want me to call you Draco, so what should I call you?”

 

“I’d rather you just didn’t talk to me, but at least my mother chose Draco, and it isn’t a constant reminder of my fucked up father and my fucked up family like my last name.”   
  
“D-Draco, so you made a few mistakes.  But I don't think you really did, because you can't make mistakes if you never had a choice.  And you certainly doesn't deserve to be hated and shunned for it.”

 

Draco finally stopped tracing the cracks in the ceiling with his eyes, and sat up to stare straight at Potter.  

 

“Really?  Because I killed people, Potter.  Good people.  I looked into their eyes, I saw that fear and that regret and that pain and that desperation, and I killed them.  My family killed them, my friends killed them, I killed them.  I watched the fear and regret and pain and desperation fade out of them.  I took the light behind their eyes.  I can see the thestrals now, and it's because of what I did to innocent people, whose only fault was not being as much of a fucking coward as I am.  And if you don't think that I deserve to be hated and shunned for that . . .    
  


“Draco, everyone deserves a second cha---”

  
“Oh, cut the bullshit, Potter.  Maybe in your perfect little storybook world, but wake the hell up.  I'm done.”   
  
Draco stormed out of the dorm, done with Potter and his stupid idealistic bullshit, not really knowing where he was going except  _ away. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE 6/29/18:   
> ok so....im orphaning this fic + a couple others cause they don't represent my work anymore as a writer and blahdiblah BASICALLY these ones are shit imo, like even more than my other ones, so I don't want them on my acct anymore, so yeahh

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, hope you enjoyed, have a great day/night


End file.
